My Urban Widowhood

A year has passed since that fateful day when my two greatest wishes were granted.

I loved a man so much that I yearned to take upon myself his worries, his disappointments, any illness or grief that was to befall him. God so loved me that he granted my wish. In shahadat, He has blessed Rizwan with eternal peace and happiness and piled upon me his responsibilities as well as the pain of his loss. This burden I carry with gratitude for I had wished to pay the price for Razi’s happiness.

As I heard voices trying but failing to form sentences and as I recognized the edge and urgency in them, my heart screamed forth another wish; Please God, let my children be safe. Never before had I believed so completely in the benevolence of God for yet again He granted my wish. Although I had lost the one person I loved more than them, my children were indeed safe.

I was the agnostic, he the believer. Laughingly he would comment “tumhari namazain bhi mein parhta hoon”. Gentle and unimposing, it was his way of guiding me to the righteous path. It took more than his loving cynicism to bring me around since now, when his God-loving presence is lost to my home, I responsibly schedule the namaz into my daily calendar and make sure 9 year old Sabine and 4 year old Bilal imbibe their father’s value system. Unlike him, I was ever ill equipped to teach the children and would happily turn the tables and learn from them. Over the past year, my children have taught me how to face adversity with dignity.

Delicate and petite, 18 year old Andaleeb proved to be a tower of strength as she took over the household and made sure it function while I remained oblivious to it and, smiling through her tears, assured me that her father was deeply in love with me and incredibly happy as he departed for Kohat and yes, she was sure he had forgiven me any displeasure I may have caused him during our life together; there was nothing to forgive, she said. Taimur, lately turned 17, needed reassurance like me.

Crying uncontrollably he asked “Mama, was he happy with me? Was he proud?” I knew it was time for me to jettison my self-pity and come to his rescue but all I could do was hold his hand and say “so proud, so very proud”. Thereafter I witnessed a man emerge from boyhood, much too early for my aching heart. Donning his father’s blazer, Taimur stood tall and dignified alongside his uncle and grandfather as he greeted guests and accepted condolences. During those trying early days, my two teenagers followed me everywhere.

With closed eyes or turned back, I could feel their concerned presence around me and whenever I started to despair, I had but to look over my shoulder to see them standing there, protective arms closing in. When, during iddat, I had to make an emergency trip to Khatmandu for business, Taimur offered to travel with me. He would see me off to work in the morning, hit the books during the day, and would be waiting in the lobby to receive me in the evening.

Andaleeb and Taimur took their A levels a mere two months after their father’s passing and are now settled at a University in Canada. They have not dwelt upon their loss nor expect me to indulge them following it. My children have taught me that real fortitude demands dignity and that, in the wake of heartbreak, it can become truly beautiful. From them, I have learnt the meaning of Sabr-e-Jameel.

My journey of discovery continues as I find myself rejecting the material and seeking the spiritual. I was never one to brood over the hereafter. With a husband who could be transferred cross-country at very short notice and a career that was adversely affected by such events, eternal bliss was having a home, decrepit structure and meager domestic services notwithstanding, where my husband, children and I could spend a precious year together.

Despite the fact that Rizwan flew fighter aircraft throughout his adult life, we never spoke of death. This life was all I intended to deal with, one posting at a time. It took one irreversible moment of truth, when Rizwan transformed from physical to spiritual, to change this. Earlier, I debated trivialities – how ambitious should one be? How much money is enough? Am I going to meet my sales target? Are the little ones overdosing on cartoon network? Do I need botox? Now, I contemplate profundities – will we meet again? What do the words “they live but ye know not” mean? Will the experience of loss make my children better human beings? Does he know I’m hurting? What would he have me do now?

I am startled that issues which engrossed me for years are actually of no consequence whereas those lately discovered are not only more important but virtually unresolveable. Thus have I stumbled upon faith – the conviction of realities I cannot see or feel, for how else is one to address a conundrum? I have faith that Allah’s promise is true and that Rizwan lives, that we shall indeed meet again, that my children are special for having suffered loss, that the most beloved are put to the greatest test.

Like all distressed beings, I resorted to faith when logic failed me and I have been at peace ever since. I find that external phenomena affect me less and that while I continue to exist in this world and make the best of my lot, I am delightfully free of earthly bonds and quite looking forward to moving on.

My husband’s employer, Pakistan Air Force, has been gracious and caring during the past months. Sudden and violent death is new neither to the PAF nor me. I was born into the Air Force and grew up with friends whose fathers embraced shahadat during war, became victims of air crashes during peace or went missing in action during operations.

As a married woman, I have shed many a tear with friends whose fighter-flying husbands took off in their aircraft but never landed. Despite PAF’s excellent flight safety record, a minimum loss of assets – pilot and aircraft – is unavoidable. One takes it in stride and, quite frankly, doesn’t give it a second thought until it hits close to home or, as in my case, pierces the heart. Subsequently, one experiences a vista of emotions ranging from anguish to anger, despair to disillusionment, forbearance to simply falling apart.

I suppose the most indigestible realization is that, now, the Air Force doesn’t know what to do with us. In a world where the family unit – pilot, wife and children – must remain wholly intact to be recognized, a severed and ravaged unit must, perforce, be discarded. There is no doubt that, monetarily, the Air Force ensures to the best of its constrained ability to provide for the affected family. Yet, for all the glorification of shaheeds and their blessed loved ones, and despite a zillion SOPs (Standard Operating Procedures) which the military establishment religiously follows, there are none on “how to treat widows and orphans of those killed in action”.

It hurts that friends change into acquaintances and relationships inevitably dwindle to a mere phone call over Eid. Yet, these are petty matters and one knows better than to expect the same courtesy and attention as when one was associated with a living being of some stature. But what of having no psychiatric or spiritual counseling for children traumatized by the loss of a parent, or of no support group for wives whose sole focus has been their duty as Mrs. Air Force and who are ill equipped to enter civil society, or of no education and employment program for women who must now earn a living?

These may seem like frivolous luxuries and I suppose one could dismiss them with arguments about the average Pakistani woman and child experiencing far deeper trauma than Mrs. Air Force could possibly be faced with. But consider; the average woman does not belong to a sub-group of society where “widow maker” and “killed in action” are commonly used terms. Every year a few Air Force wives are widowed and most of them have a child or two.

One would have thought that, over the past 50 years, their numbers would have warranted establishment of procedures for their rehabilitation into society, emotional as well as financial. Sadly, this is not so. I realized this after I stepped across to this side of the divide. Before then, I too was amongst those who called a shaheed’s wife “blessed” and considered a financial settlement sufficient to assuage her mental and emotional trauma.

How wrong I was. I continue to be steadfastly loyal to the Pakistan Air Force, but with highest regard I must urge the PAF to pay due attention to the emotional plight of those women and children whose husbands and fathers have been killed in action and who, rightfully, should remain lifetime wards of the Pakistan Air Force. I am sure the entire effort would cost less than one flying hop between Karachi and Rawalpindi by a transport aircraft.

Fate has dealt a hand that has me counting the tiniest of blessings. As for the bigger ones, my work for example, I am even more humbly grateful. A more potent painkiller could not have been prescribed for a lonely soul in need of companionship. I have always respected my work for the confidence, self-esteem and independence it has brought me, but over the past year I have discovered in it a trusted friend who understands my loneliness, knows not to invade my privacy yet provides ample opportunity to occupy my days with activity which is beneficial for my employer, my country, my family and my own hapless self.

That I have gone from being merely a conscientious worker to a workaholic who dreads the occasional free hour or two in a day is an inconvenience that my children, parents and friends patiently put up with, perhaps for the sake of my sanity. My work keeps me connected to the living world and forces my faculties to remain alert and responsive even as my heart tumbles in and out of a dark and desolate abyss. I have learnt that my work is healer, communicator, companion and, most of all, provider, and I am grateful for it.

As if advice is not being thrown at us 24x7 and a dime a dozen, I would like to advise women like myself anyway. It is presumptuous, I know, but I qualify. It is ok to grieve; we must grieve hard for those who have gone away, for they deserve our tears. But they also deserve our strength and our happiness. I advise every grieving wife to ask her departed husband a question “what would you have me do?” I can assure you that the answer will fall into your lap, clear as day. “Bring up my children well”, he will say, “and don’t worry, be happy”.

Like me, you will realize that this may be your brightest chance to permanently endear yourself to the man you love, by celebrating his life instead of mourning his death and by bringing up his children as good human beings whom he would be proud of. It’s a tall order, one that you may be inclined to throw back at him in frustration, but be aware that you are equal to the challenge. This is so because you are a woman and, more importantly, a mother. You are God’s special creature, crafted in His image, bonded with pain and able to bear so much. So, for his sake, be strong and happy despite the trial by fire.

Doris Day was well before my time but I recall her song “I beg your pardon, I never promised you a rose garden, along with the sunshine, there’s gotta be a little rain sometime”. In my life, this is the deepest rain but God never promised me a rose garden and I have no quarrel with Him. I have known better companionship in a few years than most people experience in a lifetime and I am grateful for every moment of togetherness with Razi that God allowed me. As for the pain of loss, it is my most cherished possesion, so precious that were someone to offer to take it away, I would not agree to part with it. Afterall, it is Razi’s last gift to me and of all the momentous things he brought into my life – love, laughter, children – it shall be the most enduring.